


Cinquefoil and Moss

by Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantastic Racism, Gentle Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gentle Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, I'm Bad At Summaries, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Monsters, Murder, Overstimulation, Part-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Child Abuse, Secretly Powerful Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Elves got a Raw Deal, mentions of canon typical sex-work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25818562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing/pseuds/Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing
Summary: Jaskier has hidden his secrets and buried his sorrows for as long as he could remember. He never meant for Geralt to know about them, but when you travel with a witcher, secrets have a way of coming out and sorrows brought to light.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 173





	Cinquefoil and Moss

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Lexi for continuing to beta read all of my work! And a special thank you to Marioverthere who beta'd the Tumblr posts this started as.

The thing is, no one, not a soul would know Jaskier was half-elven by simply looking at him. He appeared graceless when he wasn’t dancing or on a stage and lacked the distinctive ears so many half-breeds had. The bard often felt it was a blessing as hatred for non-humans continuously rose. He sometimes felt as though he was cheating; escaping from pogroms and harassment with far less effort than many others needed. With no pointed ears, it was much easier to pass as a human. 

However, his elven heritage had left markers. If a person knew what to look for two things could give him away: his eyes and his agelessface. Humans rarely had eyes as blue and bright as his. To prevent people from picking up on his inhuman eyes, Jaskier did his damnedest to make himself as distracting as possible in other ways. Bright clothes, bright smile, bright loud laugh. If anyone noticed his eyes were strange, it was surely all the bright colours he wore and how loudly he laughed that made them appear so. Thus, no one really paid attention to his eyes. As for aging, well, he _did_ use a number of creams and oils for his skin, and he would be able to put off any serious inquiries for another decade or so.

The only other hint of Jaskier’s true heritage was a carefully guarded secret from everyone but two dead parents and a dear friend from Oxenfurt. Guarded because it could, would get him killed. When he forgot himself and truly _sang_ Jaskier could bend human, animal, monster, _anything’s_ minds to his will. The mere sound of Jaskier’s voice out of his careful, careful control could impart any emotion, any memory onto whomever he enthralled. The bard could rewrite entire memories if he chose, could do it to _hundreds_ at a time. There was a reason elves were believed to be able to bewitch others with their voices; some honestly had that gift. Like Jaskier. It was a dangerous gift, and should anyone ever know…things could go wrong in ways that made the bard shudder to think. Death would not actually be the worst outcome. It would be the kindest. And it should have been an easy secret to keep. Never should Jaskier have been in a situation where he was in danger of revealing himself.

And yet, here he was.

_"Hush,_ _hush_ _, time to be sleeping_

_Hush Hush, dreams come a-creeping"_

This dirty, reeking swamp in the middle of nowhere is where he gives up his secret to save a man who not three months ago had declared it a blessing for the bard to be gone from his life. Kneeling with said asshole’s head resting on his lap under the midday sun because the closer he was to Geralt, the less likely any of the three Royal Griffins were to finish off the unconscious Witcher. Because why shouldn’t Jaskier use his gift to save the man he loved above all others? Mostly because it was about to go to shit in spectacular ways. 

For one thing that same man was going to kill Jaskier as soon as he woke up if the monsters Jaskier was enthralling didn’t break his enchantment and do it first. For another Geralt was a right vicious _bastard_ on a bad day. The dragon hunt had taught Jaskier that the Witcher’s tongue was as sharp as his swords and he had no desire for a repeat performance. Some days, Jaskier wondered at his ability to love so grumpy a man. 

_"Dreams of peace and of freedom_

_So smile in your sleep darling baby"_

One of the most unnerving things about Geralt was his ability to go from knocked-out-by-a-monster to awake-and-about-to-rip-out-your-spleen in a matter of seconds. Moments. The blink of an eye. Maybe that could be worked into a ballad somehow? One of the Griffins screeched in affront as Jaskier’s focus wavered. He quickly left off his musings and focused back on his song. There was a barely there twitch in Geralt's shoulders before golden cat eyes sprang open. Those clever, stunning eyes that took in the situation they were in within seconds of waking. Another line in the ballad?

_"Once our valleys were ringing_

_With sounds of our children singing"_

“Fuck.” One thing that was certainly not song worthy was Geralt’s foul language. Half of his vocabulary was variations of fuck or fuck in other languages. The thought was briefly funny, but Jaskier knew he could not allow his focus waver again. He did not stop singing, did not dare to cease his words even as Geralt sat up and away from the bard. Jaskier did not turn his head to acknowledge the burning stare as he kept all his attention on the words, kept his enchantment strong. Kept telling the great flying predators that he was a friend, that they should relax, they should sleep, there was no danger here. He knew if his concentration broke for a moment, if he allowed it to falter, the Witcher could be pulled under as well. Jaskier was telling the Griffins that they could just rest and sleep and finally forget to breathe. He was going to sing them to death and he did not want to kill his dearest Witcher too. 

_"Now we weep ‘til the evening_

_Our towers stand empty and broken"_

It seemed as though eternity passed before the first Griffin went down with a sleepy sounding grumble of a growl. The other two were looking drowsy as well, but not yet at the place where Jaskier could sing them into eternal sleep without alarming them. Wild beasts and monsters had a keener sense of what was a threat and what was not, and if Jaskier struck too early and allowed the Griffins to sense his power or intent, he was dead. The half-elf sensed movement from Geralt, and he grabbed the Witcher’s gloved wrist and squeezed. He prayed Geralt understood and did not further upset the damned big pigeons. The Griffins screeched in fury and Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s wrist one more time before releasing it and refocusing all of his power to enthrall the two remaining beasts, lest they wake their slumbering friend. His renewed attentions seemed to do the trick, and soon the second and third dropped into sleep.

_"Hush hush time to be sleeping_

_Hush hush dreams come a-creeping_

_Dreams of peace and of freedom_

_So smile in your sleep darling baby"_

Their heavy bodies created splashes of muddy water, drenching Jaskier in muck even farther. His face was probably set in a rather comical grimace as he heard the quietest huff of amusement from his companion. His song needed to transition soon, and he hoped Geralt would just give him a little more time.

“Hmmm.” Jaskier flinched as the low growling rumble he was so familiar with, pierced his monopoly of sound again. He quieted his voice slightly, changed to a softer tone.

_"Where stands our proud elven mettle_

_Our Folk once so famed in battle_

_Now stand cowed huddled like cattle_

_And soon to be driven to the mountain"_

“Stop.” Geralt was beginning to sound agitated. Jaskier shook his head and began to pour more power into his words. It was easy to let his power flow through this song, as it was both victorious and tragic. Easy to shape, easy to channel.

_"We stood with heads unbowed and glared_

_While deceivers laid our pottages bare_

_The flames fired the clear valley air_

_And many were dead come the morning"_

“Shut up, damn it! Stop singing.”

_"Hush hush time to be sleeping_

_Hush hush dreams come a-creeping"_

“Bard.” Jaskier finally looked over at the Witcher, feeling his heart turning to ice as he was greeted with angry golden eyes. But he did not falter this time, and he kept singing. The world seemed to quiet around him as he sang the final parts of his death knell, and he closed his impossibly blue eyes, waiting for silvered steel to take his life.

_"Dreams of peace and of freedom_

_Don’t cry in your sleep darling baby"_

“Jaskier enough! They’re dead! Stop your magic!” Geralt shouted.

Jaskier stopped abruptly and opened his eyes. He looked at the three still bodies in front of him, feeling the tell-tale hot prickle that signaled imminent tears. Griffins were beautiful in a way most other monsters weren’t. Majestic, proud, free...it always made him sad when Geralt had contracts to kill one. And he had just killed three. He never wanted to use his gift like this, hadn’t really wanted to use his gift at all. It felt wrong, to kill with music. Jaskier had no problems throwing a punch or stabbing some bastard who desperately deserved it, but killing with music? It was a twist on all that he was. But it was all that Geralt was going to see. The bard was not expecting a rough palm to grasp his chin and turn his head to look at the angry Witcher in the eye. And oh, does Geralt look angry.

“You aren’t human.” Growled Geralt. Jaskier swallowed harshly, wishing he could swallow his words and never speak again. He wishes he could hide the truth, but he can’t lie to Geralt.

“I’m partially human. My father was human.” Jaskier murmured. Geralt narrows his eyes and let’s go of the bards chin. Jaskier blinks in surprise until he notices large hands moving in the shape of a familiar sign. He opens his mouth to ask Geralt to wait but doesn’t get the words out before he is under the control of Axii. The world goes sort of shimmery and soft around the edges, and the absolute panic that Jaskier knows he feels seems so very distant. Geralt is surprisingly gentle as he tilts Jaskiers head by cupping his cheek with one hand.

“Why did you never tell me?” Jaskier feels his tears spill, but can’t seem to muster the will to wipe them away, caught in golden eyes staring at him, as though peeling away every one of his layers. 

“It’s always been a secret; I don’t look like a half breed. Safer to not be a half breed.” Geralt hums lowly and looks oddly sad. The larger man stares at Jaskier’s eyes and uses his other hand to gently trace the tear tracks on the bard's fair skin.

“Why are you crying Jaskier?” Jaskier wants to say nothing, wants to close his eyes but axii makes it terribly hard to do anything but be honest with Geralt.

“You are going to see me as a monster now. You’ve heard me kill with a song and now you are going to kill me for being a liar and a killer and some half breed freak and it hurts because I love you more than I have words an-“ Jaskier’s voice breaks on a sob, because even though he is made pliant with the sign, he still feels so deeply that it pushes past the control. “And I killed with _music_. I never wanted to kill with songs, music is supposed to be healing and kind and-and I hurt with it.” 

He tilts his head against Geralt’s gloved palm, seeking some kind of sturdiness to ground him. Geralt looks about as startled as he ever has, and then something seems to, not soften, but release. Geralt sighs heavily as he stands and draws Jaskier onto his feet as well, but the floodgates have opened and the bard is full on sobbing his apologies to Geralt for what he is, what he’s done and most of all for loving the Witcher when he knows that it would never be returned. The world is shimmery at the edges and Jaskier loses himself to it, to this shimmery not-reality he wishes wouldn’t leave. 

It takes some time for axii to wear off, and by the time Jaskier is himself again, and the world is back to how it usually appears. The sun has begun to set and everything is bathed in red gold light. He is physically exhausted from the adrenaline dump and his emotions feel distant. Numb. He is also, apparently, being held gently.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier chances a look up at the much beloved face. The Witcher is stone faced as usual, but his eyes are not angry, and it doesn’t appear that Jaskier is in any particular danger. He opens his mouth to speak and is promptly interrupted. “We’re going back to camp. You are going to tell me everything.” The corded arms around Jaskier drop and he sways lightly, unmoored. He is not left adrift for long, because even as the Witcherturns his back to the bard, Geralt snags one of Jaskier’s fine boned hands in his own large one. It’s not so much holding hands as it’s the Witcher keeping him tethered and less likely to flee.

“You aren’t going to kill me?” Geralt raised an incredulous eyebrow at the bard and Jaskier winces. His fears seem unfounded in the face of everything he has seen of the White Wolf and his frequent mercy for monsters, elves, and outsiders.

“If I was going to kill you, it would be because you are the most annoying whoreson in the Northern Kingdoms.” They walk on for a few steps. “Not because you happen to be a half-elf. Or because you sing so horribly you kill shit.” Jaskier feels his jaw drop and he starts to sputter in outrage.

“My singing isn’t horrible you bastard!”

“Did you not just sing three Griffins, Royal Griffins, to death?“

“Not because it was bad! My singing is renowned across this continent! I have an excellent voice matched only by my wit and personality! Others bards weep in envy of my voice you- you cad! Uncultured arse-”

“Shut up.” The bard shuts up and a new anxiety inducing awkward silence descends as he is reminded that he just demonstrated a very strange and deadly power that had to do with his voice. Their camp comes into view and Jaskier breathes a small sigh. The silence is eating at his very limited composure and he just wants to have his lute and bedroll and maybe to not have the coming conversation. Ever. 

Their camp is settled in a copse of trees, where the roots hold enough dirt in place that brackish water gives way to one of the few solid, dry patches of ground to be found. It is a welcome respite from the mud and slime that coats the pair of them from waist to heel. The small pit dug into the ground next to their bedrolls is a familiar enough sight to Jaskier that he smiles in spite of the distant fear of the coming confrontation. Camp with Geralt in the wilds is always a safe place. Well, it always has been. Jaskier isn’t sure how he’s going to feel about it after they talk. Or he talks and Geralt Hmms or Grunts in emphasis.

Once they reach their camp, Geralt releases his hand and uses igni to start a fire in the waiting wood. In the orange light of the fire and the waning light of the setting sun, the air takes on a glow as golden as the eyes that turn once again to Jaskier.

“Start from the beginning.” The bard swallows as Geralt begins to remove his armor and gear, falling into the same routine as always. Swords, bandolier, gloves, pauldrons, studded gambeson…

“It’s a long story.” The other man snorts.

“When isn’t it with you?” Suddenly, the bard feels a surge of frustrated confusion break through the strange-fake normalcy of their banter and camp. It had all been too much. Geralt is down to his dark shirt and pants when the dam breaks once more and Jaskier is shouting.

“I don’t understand! How are you so bloody calm! I lied to you for twenty years! How can you stand there like nothing has changed when it’s all different because now you know that not only am I half-blood bastard, but I can also compel things with my voice!” The bard breaks off and tugs slightly on his hair. “Fuck Geralt! I even told you I loved you and you are allergic to affection from anyone! Especially me! I’ve only been singing your praises for two sodding decades and I’m sure to anyone with eyes and ears could tell you how it’s obvious I love you.” Jaskier laughs, slightly hysterical, because his typical babbling is going to cause a repeat of the bloody mountain incident and he’s not able to stop. As his laughter turns to slight wheezing and further panicked babbling, Geralt’s eyes narrow slightly and he steps close to Jaskier again, roughly seizing the bard’s sturdy shoulders. Jaskier expects to be shaken, or manhandled or yelled at. 

He is instead kissed with purpose; not gentle, not rough. Geralt seems to be saying _something_ with the kiss but Jaskier is too far beyond frazzled to understand. It seems to go on for forever; yet not nearly long enough for his discerning and experienced tastes. Once their lips part, the bard finds himself with tears once again making tracks down his face. He is not a crier normally, but he is completely overwhelmed by the day. Geralt lifts his hand and cradles Jaskiers cheek in a calloused palm.

“Jaskier. You loving me is no secret. You have told me in song and deed. The rest, I’ll admit, caught me off guard” Geralt kisses him again, hungrier and more urgently. The Witcher pulls Jaskier by the shoulder and by the magnetic draw of their connected mouths over to where their bedrolls are laid. The kiss ends with Geralt laying them both down on a bedroll, ignoring how dirty they are. 

“You have been singing about me for most of a decade. You have followed me to the ends of the earth. You have forgiven me for cruelties that you should have held against me until the end.” The Witchers hands frame the bard’s waist. “I know your scent, your heart beat, the soft cadence of your every breath. I knew you loved me when once again our paths crossed after the dragon hunt and you still sang of me.” Geralt looms over Jaskier, impossibly warm and large. The silver curtain of his hair flows over his shoulder like water to brush lightly against Jaskier’s cheek. “I was just waiting for you to find your balls and say it.” Sharp teeth were bared in a rare and slightly frightening grin at Jaskier’s indignant squawk.

“I’d like to see you confess to someone you were sure was going to leave you on the side of a road or abandon you in an inn with no warning! Find my balls, fuck you Witcher. I figured I wasn’t subtle and you are not half so stupid as you like to pretend so no one saying anything wasn’t cowardice! It was simply knowing the fuck better!” Jaskie’s tears and fears had turned to annoyance and he was scowling at his handsome Witcher. “Now you find your words you unmitigated arsehole. Also, it’s not like you’ve said anything back so my unrequited pining can be embarrassing as well as painful!”

“It’s not unrequited.” Jaskier paused so suddenly on an inhale that he choked before he could continue his rant.

“ Ghhhuk, Uh?” Geralt snorted and his slightly-scary-really-hot grin widened.

“It’s not unrequited. I just didn’t know what to do with it.” Geralt’s amused stare turned accusing. “I thought you were human, Jaskier. I thought you would die before I even began to see my middle age. I thought I would watch you wither and die.” It was Jaskier’s turn to snort and give Geralt an arch look.

“Oh yes, because it’s not like you don’t take insane risks and nearly die via monster every chance you get. You act like you outliving me is so bloody certain when I have had to be ready to mourn you in an instant! You’ve been actively courting death since the day we met Mister-kill-me-let-him-go!” The accusing stare turned to an irritated one.

“I never lied about what I was and what you could expect? I am a Witcher. I will die on The Path.” Jaskier took a deep breath in order to yell at Geralt, to continue one of their long standing arguments about Witchers and life and retiring and old age when he suddenly deflated with a quiet laugh. Geralt blinked like a startled cat.

“What.”

“That was not a question! Try using some inflection for fucks sake. I know you can!”

“Jaskier.” The low rumbling growl of his name dispersed most of the amusement. The bard sighed quietly and closed his eyes.

“We went from kissing and getting ready to curl up on the same bedroll to arguing about the same tired things in less than an hour. The fact is that I lied. Rather, I never told you. I should have. I have to stop asking you to break your habits if I will not do the same.” Jaskier opened his eyes again and smiled wryly at Geralt. “I have a bunch of secrets I never told you, but we could go back to kissing, I would not mind in the slightest my dearest Witcher.” Geralt huffed in amusement, the boiling irritation soothed by the utter absurdity of the situation. 

“No more secrets Jaskier,” said Geralt firmly. “Tell me.” Jaskier pursed his lips for a moment then met Geralt’s stunning eyes. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, and I am the bastard son of the Viscount De Lettenhove.”

**Author's Note:**

> The song Jaskier sings is based on a Scottish folk song called "Smile in Your Sleep". The song is about the Highland Clearances. Whole clan communities were destroyed by the British, and a significant chunk of Highlander culture was lost. Bagpipe music, clan tartans, Scottish Gaelic and old faith practices were banned. The clan form of government was also severely crippled. The native Scots were forcibly relocated to places like Nova Scotia and Cape Breton. Their land was sold to outsiders for pastoral and economic development. 
> 
> "Smile in Your Sleep" was written by Jim McLean in 1968. McLean wrote the lyrics to the tune of a song called Chì Mi Na Mòrbheanna, written by John Cameron in 1856. It's beautiful, haunting, angry, triumphant...it's a lullaby for a proud people who faced tragedy after tragedy and had their identity made illegal by the kings of Britain following the Battle of Culloden.


End file.
